


fail for you

by Piyo13



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Not Happy, POV Second Person, a recounting of their relationship throughout the ages, about as fucked up as you'd expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4615047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron's journey, from Valinor to Dagor Dagorath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fail for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/gifts).



> title from the song [fail for you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKKrlthkBzA) by luke sital-singh, which was the soundtrack for writing this if you like some ambiance
> 
> i tried to stick to canon timeline as best i could, but there will inevitably be points where i messed up. sorry in advance.
> 
> and finally, many many thanks to [Ias,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias) who talked angbang with me for hours and pretty much inspired this fic :'D

You’re young and naive, the first time you hear his name mentioned. It’s whispered in darkened halls, and seems to belong there— _Melkor, Melkor..._  you ignore the whisperings, though. You’ve more important matters to think about, the rhythmic beat of your hammer on orange-hot metal keeping you company and drowning out almost everything else. 

Still, on occasion you catch yourself wondering how it was possible, that someone should want to ruin something as delicately constructed as the song of the Ainur. You wonder, also, why Eru Ilúvatar would allow it. 

* * *

You’re still young, though less naive, when you finally meet him. He’s... not what you expected, that’s for sure. You were awaiting dark eyes and unnatural skin, a demon from your most suppressed nightmares, perhaps, but not—not a  _Valar._  

His physical attractiveness you can write off in terms of clever proportions and golden ratios, in a particular arrangement of angles and expert use of colors. But his personality, you have no craftsman’s jargon to fall back upon to explain how he draws you.

You ignore it as best you know how, loosing your thoughts and emotions onto molten metal. 

* * *

He visits you in the forge. Not even Aulë does this. 

He visits you in the forge, whispers of his name hiding in the dark spaces between flames, in the almost-silence between hammerfalls. 

You don’t know when, but at some point, he becomes  _part_  of your forge, his quiet commentary as important to your work as your anvil. 

* * *

He tells you stories, while you work, while you don’t work. His voice is deep and lyrical, and often you forget that this is the same voice that marred all of creation. You mention that to him once, in a peaceful moment, as you rest your head on his shoulder and he twines a lock of your hair through his fingers. 

He laughs, though not maliciously.  _Did Eru not create me, too?_ is all he says on the matter. 

You think about that for a long, long time. 

* * *

Aulë warns you of him. You don’t listen.

(In retrospect, you were still more naive than you thought).

* * *

Your first kiss comes in the ringing silence that follows a project completed to perfection, in the heady rush that comes with knowing your sleepless nights have paid off, echoes of your labor still vibrating in the walls. 

His lips are on yours, hungry and assertive, and you can hear your heart pounding in your ears, louder than your hammer ever was, loud enough to mask even the ever-present Ainulindalë. 

You hear something else, though; notes that you think could clash with the melody of the Ainulindalë if given the chance, but that, on their own, are anything but discordant. There’s a tempo to them.

* * *

You fuck for the first time not long after. 

He pins your hands above your head, kisses rows down your throat and abdomen, he whispers  _Mairon_  against your skin and you have never felt so valued, so  _admired._  He opens you up slowly, until you are naught more than a writhing mess under his touch, your hands still stretched above you.

You beg.

He fucks you to the beat of the dissonant rhythm you now recognize as his own.

* * *

You’re running with your pack—you consider them yours, just as they consider you theirs, though they spend most of their time roaming the forests as you spend most of yours in a dark forge—when you notice him. 

Well, you’re no longer running; you’re feeding, elbow deep in elk guts and snarling, your mouth and jaw doused in blood where your ululating pack allowed you first bite of the hunt. 

He’s lounging against a tree, merely looking on, but you freeze—you know this behavior isn’t accepted, you know how others view the way predators feed, a roiling mass of fur and fangs, interesting to watch from afar but never,  _never_  to join. You try to wipe your mouth, but the blood on your hands only dirties you further, and you feel a knot of fear sink into your stomach,  _what if he doesn’t want you anymore_ —

But instead he walks over, and your wolves snarl but make no move against him, and he kisses you square on the lips, blood and all.  _Mairon_ , he whispers, and you kiss him back with full force, the discordant song filling your ears sweet, somehow. 

You fuck to the backdrop of snarls and yelps and half-howls, even as the blood on your hands slowly congeals.

* * *

You leave with him when he destroys the trees and takes the Silmarils. 

You wonder about your choice to follow him, sometimes. But in the end, you turn your back on Valinor. After all, did Eru not create you, too?

* * *

You become his lieutenant because that’s what he needs of you, and you’ve always striven to please.

You think that maybe, just maybe, he knows that as well. 

* * *

It is the Silmarils. They’re the reason that your name falling from his lips feels less like admiration, and more like mockery.

* * *

As lieutenant, your task is simple. Keep Angband running, and defeat as many of his enemies as you can. 

You are, in your own opinion, terrifyingly good at it. Your hands are often stained with blood, nowadays, though you find less time than ever to run with your pack. 

(You were always a perfectionist).

* * *

It’s with a twist in your gut that you realize that you enjoy your work now as much as you ever enjoyed your work under Aulë—only here you have much more rein over what you can and can’t do. 

You shouldn’t enjoy this, should you? you wonder idly, pushing harder and harder until your efforts are rewarded with a scream of pain. 

The scream harmonizes with the solitary tune that now always carries on in the back of your mind, where the song of the Ainur used to be. You don’t think about it too hard. 

* * *

The faces of the elves dying on the battlefield, that you’re  _killing_  on the battlefield—many of them are familiar. 

You had counted some of them as friends, in a different time. 

* * *

You don’t see him too often anymore, busy as he is recruiting Men to his purpose. When you take Tol-Sirion, though, he returns, and you ride your victory to his bed, and he fucks you, and oh, how you’ve missed this.

* * *

You scratch Draugluin behind the ears, where he likes it. You wonder if Thuringwethil or Gothmog ever have second thoughts about their master, and what they do. 

(The days are increasing, now, where you’re appalled by your own efficiency. He praises you for it, though, so you put it from your mind as best you can.)

* * *

Things go badly, and you lay low. You’d hoped the loss of a Silmaril would bring him back to the person he’d been, many years ago, but it hasn’t. 

Every time you think of going back, you convince yourself to wait his temper out just a bit longer.

* * *

You waited too long. 

You want to scream at Eonwë, curse him, tell him to take you instead. But all that leaves your lips is a plea for mercy, one that Eonwë,  _damn_  him, hears. 

But that mercy comes at too high a cost, and you flee. 

Besides, Melkor has shown you a freedom that none in Valinor have ever shown you, he has validated you like none in Valinor ever have, and you—you’re not willing to give all that up. 

(You’ve come too far, committed too many crimes to be  _able_  to give it up. Your path was chosen a long time ago, and all you can do now is cast your lot further down it.)

* * *

There is a young elf among the people of Eregion, young and naive and talented and so full of promise, and he trusts you. He reminds you of yourself. 

You want to destroy him. 

* * *

In the end, you do. You string him up, lovingly impale him, and let your armies march in his dripping, bloody wake. 

It’s a sick satisfaction.

* * *

Your Rings didn’t work, not the way you intended them to, and so you lie low again, biding your time until the opportunity arises. 

Sometimes you catch yourself looking out at the blackness between the stars, wondering if his song can still be heard in the Void, even as it echoes in your mind, in time to the many beating hammers of Mordor.

* * *

And what an opportunity it is, when it comes. You don a pretty face and follow Ar-Pharazôn back to Númenor. 

* * *

You wish you could laugh at how easy it is to corrupt the Númenorians. 

You wonder what Melkor would think of your work, as you look down into the harbor of fully-armed warships bent to Valinor. You doubt it will be enough to seriously harm the Valar, but even so. 

* * *

You’re drowning. 

Past the rush of water, you hear music.

* * *

You’ve never had to build a body before. Tearing them apart used to be enough. 

* * *

Damn Men. Damn them, but also—at least they are too weak to resist the Ring. 

* * *

You miss him.

* * *

Or do you just miss the conviction he used to give you, that what you’re doing is right?

* * *

You don’t know anymore. Only that the darkness between the stars brings you solace in a way that even his song no longer does.

* * *

You feel the Ring come to light again, in a creature that is not Gollum. 

Interesting.

* * *

They are trying to kill you. 

* * *

When oblivion comes, you almost welcome it. 

* * *

You’re neither young, nor naive, now. You don’t know how long it’s been, but you know where you are: Dagor Dagorath, the End of Days. There is nowhere else you could be. The blackness in front of you congeals into a familiar form, and you gasp—

Piercing eyes lock onto you, see through you, and the final strand of whatever was holding you together breaks. 

Melkor walks past you without acknowledgement, his meaning clear. 

You failed him.

* * *

You fight alongside him, because you must, because of the path you chose and the lives you took.

* * *

You didn't used to think yourself capable of regret.


End file.
